Whilst walking recently one morning, my mind reflected over 15 years ago to an afternoon in the Crimea !!
August 13, 2009
After a blissful day spent lounging on the beach, my wife Svetlana suggested I join her for a service at the nearby Russian Orthodox Church. While I wasn’t exactly thrilled about the idea—truthfully, I would have preferred to grab a beer—I decided to be supportive of her wishes.
Raised in a Catholic household, going to Mass each Sunday was a cornerstone of my childhood. It was there that I absorbed the essential values and witnessed my parents derive comfort from their beliefs.
Accompanying Svetlana turned out to be a decision I did not regret, as the experience was quite eye-opening. We arrived at the church about ten minutes before the service started. I learned that this quaint little church had once belonged to a brother of the Russian Tsar back in 1908.
The church was about 50 square meters, adorned with immaculate icons and candles flickering everywhere. A small altar, beautifully covered with stained glass, and a central presentation stand displaying an icon contributed to an overall atmosphere of tranquillity.
The service commenced with lengthy prayers that were neither sung nor spoken but delivered in a rapid-fire manner that reminded me of a horse raceing commentator. I marvelled at how the elderly women kept pace without losing their breath. The priest, hidden behind the altar, added his powerful voice to the mix, further enhancing the experience.
Among the congregation was a particularly commanding figure I dubbed Olga. In her late sixties or early seventies, she had a hard, weathered face that spoke of a lifetime of labour and care. She was the unofficial enforcer of the service, ensuring that everyone adhered to the dress code. When a young family arrived, Olga was quick to notice that their daughter, a lovely girl of about ten, was hatless. Without hesitation, she provided a scarf, insisting it be worn immediately. The girl complied, transforming it into a trendy bandana, nearly bringing a smile to Olga’s stern face.
Olga was also meticulous about the candles, extinguishing old ones with her bare fingers while continuing to chant her prayers without missing a beat. It was clear to me that Olga was a force to be reckoned with—if she told you to be home for dinner at eight, you’d better be there early.
As the service progressed, the priest made his entrance, swinging a thurible and releasing clouds of incense throughout the small church. A large man in his late forties, he wore trendy white sandals with socks beneath his ornate robes. The sight was amusing—having owned a similar pair myself last year! His commanding presence earned him the respect of Olga and the other women in attendance.
Accompanying him was an unusual altar boy, looking more suited for a Depeche Mode concert than a church. Clad in all black, he exuded a serious demeanor as he assisted the priest, fetching and carrying items while trying to outpace Olga’s watchful eye.
The prayers intensified as more worshippers trickled in, and I noticed I was no longer the only male in the room—two others had joined me. The service turned into a comical dance as the priest moved through the church, swinging incense everywhere while we shuffled around to avoid him. Olga and her crew had this routine down to a science.
If thurible handling ever becomes an Olympic sport, I’d place my bets on the Ukrainians or Russians for gold, as the priest displayed remarkable skill. The Russian Orthodox service was not only a spiritual experience but also a physical workout, with participants blessing themselves, bowing to the altar, kissing icons, and kneeling regularly. I had thought Catholic Mass was active, but this was on another level—like comparing Sunday League Football to the Premier League.
After what felt like twenty-five minutes, I thought we were nearing the end, but I was mistaken. The priest and his assistant retreated behind the altar, and the service continued. Another round of prayers commenced, and a family that looked distinctly American entered the church. The mother was dressed casually, and her children, aged three and eight, were anything but compliant with the Orthodox customs.
Meanwhile, the American mother managed to light candles and participate in the prayers, all while her children roamed freely, much to Olga’s chagrin.
Suddenly, our altar boy reappeared, and the priest emerged without his thurible, leading me to believe we were finally wrapping things up. The priest took centre stage, booming out prayers that echoed through the church. To my surprise, his mobile phone rang (not exactly orthodox), and as he answered, I couldn’t help but chuckle quietly. Was it a text from his wife asking what he wanted for dinner or perhaps a message from the main man himself, urging him to conclude the service so I could head off for a drink?
The prayers continued for another ten minutes, full of blessings and fervent declarations, until at last, the priest concluded the service after an hour and fifteen minutes. I left feeling warmer and wiser, having witnessed a community at ease with their faith, a blend of traditional values and modern influences like mobile phones and trendy dress.
Outside, as soon as the priest stepped out, he chastised a builder working on the church, which made me smile. Our Depeche Mode fan departed in a vintage Lada, while Olga and her crew remained outside, engrossed in conversation.
Finally, I made my way out, ready to return to my Catholic roots by taking Svetlana for a pint. I couldn’t help but feel a bit let down that there wasn’t a bar attached to the church—surely, with how much the Russians enjoy their drinks, it would be a sensible idea! But then again, if all religions and customs were the same, life would be rather dull.!
